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65

POEMS

[When thou and I must part]

When wee have lost our Breath, & shall not vex
The Citty, nor the precise Holy Sects
Of our new Reformation, with Mirth,
Which though refin'd, yet they say smells of Earth:
When Wit and Innocence shall both expire,
And our Soules flourish with eternall Fire:
When all is gone that the false envious World
With much regret into our Pockets hurl'd:
When the harsh Thunder of a Drawer's Voice,
Hucsters Non-sense, mixt with a Medley-noise
Of Carmen, Prentises, & Boyes, no more
Shall trouble us: and when no after-Score
Shall mend our first mistaken Reckonings:
When Tailors, Sergeants, and such hatefull Things
Shall leave us, & wee them; when Thou & I,
That never single were, must part and dye:
Our Freinds (I hope) will be so liberall
And kind, to let us have one Buriall,
One Grave to blend our Ashes, as one Life
Did mix our equall Hearts with mutuall strife
Of Friendship & Delight. There (as Wise Men
Beleeve, that Love lives after Death) agen
Our Spirits shall intermix, & weave their Knots;
Free from the trouble of these earthly Grotts;
Thence winged flie to the Elysian Groves,
Where, whilst wee still renew our constant Loves,
A Thousand Troops of Learned Ghosts shall meet
Us, and our com̄ing thither gladly greet.
First the Great Shadow of Renowned Ben
Shall give us hearty, joyfull Wellcome: then
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Ingenious Randolph from his lovely Arms
Shall entertaine us with such mighty charms
Of strict embraces, that wee cannot wish
For any comforts greater than this Blisse:
From hence dismiss'd through many winding Wayes
And subtle turnings, where each Spirit playes,
Delighting to be lost in such a Maze
Of Joyes & Pleasure, our just, even Pace
Shall bring us to that sweet Forgetfull Lake,
Which (if brave Pöets sing the Truth) will make
All Sorrow flie away from them that bath
Their thirsty Pallates in the liquid Path.
Here on a shadie Plot of pleasant Ground
Those scorned Lovers mingle in a Round,
Who in their Life time were unhappily
Blasted & torne by cruell Perjurie.
All these frequent the pow'rfull Streames, to drowne
Their burning Greifes, & drinke their Sorrows downe:
That the Inconstant Sex may not torment
Their Shadowes after Death, with Discontent.
And here Wee Two swell'd with delightfull joy
Shall quite forget those Cares, which did annoy
Our Minds in this vaine Region of Greife,
Where there is little Comfort or Releife.
Wee'll sit upon the flowrie Banks, and spend
Our cheerfull Thoughts in Pleasures without End.

ON MRS KATHARINE SPENCER

What mournfull Hearse is this, that thus makes sute
And wooes my Teares & Verse for a Salute?
For that is all, that the weake Impotence
Of my strong Greife, and dull Muse can dispence:
Let other Pens sweat to advance her Fame,
Mine shall but touch the odour of her Name:
For though my Sorrow be as large as that
Which knows no bounds; yet the Expression's flat,
And falters in her freenesse, 'cannot sound
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The Object's depth without a killing Wound.
Her Sweetnes, Courtesie, her Mildnes, Truth,
Her simple Wisdome, Gravitie in Youth,
Like Lines i' th' Circle of her Life did run
Upon the Center of Devotion.
There Shee was fixt, and to that Head did draw,
All the sweet Precepts of her vertuous Law:
A Law, that She propos'd unto her selfe
As a fair Marke t'avoid the dang'rous Shelfe
Of each Temptation, which the World presents
Like Pearls, to hide their horrid Discontents.
What Nature, Education, Fortune could
Bestow, by use She made her own true Good.
How did She hate the tempting tunes of Vice,
Whose Musique draws unto a Precipice!
When wee did urge the Cure of her Disease,
Her Soule assur'd her of a better Ease.
Her Sufferings were her Joy, the dolorous Paine
Of Sicknes was the Earnest of her Raigne;
That Raigne, that Crown Triumphant, wch defies
The petty Scorns of the World's Injuries:
With which oppress'd, like a just, pious Theefe,
She stole away to Heaven for Releife.
Her Breath departed hence without a groane,
As She had wish'd her Dissolution.
Let Angells sing the honour, majestie,
And greatnes of her Immortalitie;
All I can say is this, She could not stay
To weare that longer, wch would weare away.
Her Body was the Burden of her Soule,
Which now advanc'd is under no controule
Of Weaknes, Vanitie, or Sin, as free
From the least taint of all Impuritie,
As is her lovely name; a Fixed Star,
Fix'd above all the Clouds of Death & War.
68

To the Memory of my deare Friend MRS. PENELOPE SYMCOTS, who dyed of a violent Feaver in the Flower of her Age, at Hatton House in Holborne, London. Jul. 31. 1651.

Farwell vaine Life! for Shee, whose vertues led
My wandering steps, (they say) is dead.
Wellcome deare Death! for Shee, that made life sweet,
Lies here a carcase in a Sheet.
That Flesh that would have more than halfe refin'd
Our Soules, is vanish'd hence like Wind:
That Soule, the Jewell of that lovely Shrine,
Compos'd o' th' purest Oare i' th' Mine,
Is now transported to a Throne of Blisse,
So great, wee can't define what 't is.

Cultores sui Deus protegit CAROLUS

Flint-hearted Tyrants! use your arts
To bruise our Bones, & breake our Hearts!
Tempestuous Storms may swell and rise,
But cannot range above the Skies:
Where Innocence & Vertue stand aloofe,
Free from the darts of Envy, Malice-proofe.
Danger is nothing but a Name
Which jealous States-men slily frame
To fright their Vassalls: Wee that looke
At Heaven's Favour, are not strooke
With Apparitions. Shackles, Fire, & Sword,
Are but to Us the Terrour of a Word.
Vaine Fancy! Idle Fury! what
Is that Device, you call a Plot?
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What are those subtle, pretty Snares?
Cobwebs for Flies, or Traps for Hares?
Fishers of Men you are not sure: for then
Wee should be proud to fill your greedy Den.
Poor, silly, Cut-throat! that same Knife
May let out blood, but let in Life.
Our Dwelling is above! there, there
Wee live! wee are but Pris'ners here!
Such is the Kindnes of your Wrath! The Theefe
That would have rob'd us, sends a quick Releife.
Religion cannot suffer so,
As not to overcome her Foe.
Goodnes is such a Roiall Charm,
It both prevents & drives off Harm.
The Naked Truth is Meate, Drinke, Cloaths, and Sleepe:
Hee's ever safe, whom Heav'n vouchsafes to keepe.
His Service is our Libertie;
And in that Freedome wee enjoy
Such strong Defence, such things of Price,
Our Prison is our Paradise:
And though layd up for Death, preserv'd to bleed,
Wee only lie to be secur'd indeed.
Thus our Renowned Palm doth rise
Like a brave Embleme to our Eyes.
His Weights make light his Resurrection:
The Beaten Rock is His Perfection.
Grace exceeds Vanitie, till both conclude
A Crown of Glory and Beatitude.
Thus mighty Charls still lives to bee
The Image of his Victorie.
And though rebellious Hands combine
To spoile his Statues, and his Coine;
Hee shall remaine by his Example, best:
An Angell of bright Gold in every Breast.
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The fatall Axe, the surly Frown,
The rugged Buffe, & rufling Gown,
These Signes of Pride shall ne're put down
The brightnes of his high Renown.
Hee is the Hieroglyphik of Eternall Joy,
Which no faint Stroaks of Witchcraft can destroy.
Thus the Defender of our Faith
From the same Faith protection hath.
Devotion was his Guard; and then
He could not need the strength of Men.
He that can worship, and beleeve so well,
Is above all the Pow'rs of Earth & Hell.
He scornes to lurke in a Disguise
To cheate the Folly of our Eyes:
Hypocrisie is but a Vaile;
Plaine Justice was his Coat of Maile.
Thus arm'd, Hee may bee truly, safely sayd,
Like Solomon, in Proverbs all array'd.
His firm Repentance was in stead
Of a rich Helmet to his Head.
No bloody Speare or fierie Dart
Could peirce the Breast-plate of his Heart.
His solid Greifes, and strict Anxieties
Were the Close Armour of his Victories.
Hee was a Christian Cap-a-pe,
Girt round with true Divinitie:
And though hee walk'd in a Red Sea
Of Civill War and Crueltie,
His Hands were white, his Feet with Peace were shod;
Indued all over with the Arms of God.

ON THE SILKE-WORME

The Silke-worme's Work & Labour now is mine;
A Taske (on this side Heaven) most divine!
A Worke, that in the Subject may contend
With Virgil's Bee, however it bee penn'd!
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Pretty neat Huswife! pray, what Nature is't
Hath taught thee this fine Art to spin & twist
Those precious Threads, wch make the Plow-man vaile
And strike his Russet-bonnet to thy Saile!
Sure 't is some Providence, Something no lesse
Than that High Power, wch his Gifts doth blesse
With a preserving Skill, hath freely lent
Both for Necessity and Ornament.
How can the cunning Artisan let slip
The pompe and glory of thy Workmanship!
What vast & mighty pleasures this small Wretch
Disperses from it selfe, enough to stretch
A barren Fancy into teeming joyes!
A Heape, that satisfies, but never cloyes.
Pleasure & Profit, Wit and Industry,
Mix their great Powers in this Little Fly.
Minerva's Loom is shrunke into his Cell;
Arachne's Web is a slight Paralell.
Deck'd with the travaile of these creatures, Kings
And Queens become such Honourable Things.
The Gallant rufling in a Silken Storme,
Poor Man, is yet beholding to a Worme
For all his Braverie! when the wind is low,
This pettie Æolus must make Him blow,
Set up his Sailes, and from his Wardrope bring
The blust'ring gloryes of a glitt'ring King.
Wee have our Physick too from Him: the Heart
Is cloath'd with easy health, and freed from smart.
The smooth & downie Wings of Sweet Content
Are woven here, the Mind's Habiliment.
It cheers the Soule, it recreates the Sad,
In rugged Times it makes the Spirits glad,
It calmes distempers, smooths a wrinckled Brow,
And swells our thoughts, although our Fate bee low;
It mollifies our greifes, and doth assuage
The course afflictions of this ragged Age:
In vaine wee use Steel-physick to confute
The Iron-World; 't is this Soft Thing must doe't.
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As tender drops of dew dissolve the Stone,
Our Hardship thus doth vanish and is gone;
As solemne Musique gluts the greedy Eare,
It fills with courage; and it purges Feare;
Inspires, and expells; it breeds & feeds
Our good, but starves & kills our wicked deeds:
It stores the Mind with Angells, & lets out
Those wild corruptions, that rebellious rout
Of Sinnes & Devills, which perplex the Saint
Till Soveraigne Faith & Roiall Reason faint.
A Virgin's Smile distill'd into a Kisse
Is not such comfortable joy as this!
This is the force of Silkes! in harder termes
This is the strength & vertue of Alkermes.
All this that thus cloaths, cures, preserves, reformes,
Windes up in praise to our Silke-spinning Wormes.
Their Breeding is so delicate, 't must needs
Produce such mild effects, such glorious deeds.
Observe with wonder, how this punie Elfe
Doth worke, and winde, and nuzzle up himselfe
In a rich Bed of Silke! His Mulb'ry Feast
Once past, hee runs to his laborious Rest,
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Lurkes in his politique Huske, as if hee meant
With ease to undermine The Parliament,
Workes like a Powder-traitour in a Hole;
Faux himselfe was not such a crafty Mole.
See, sayes SR Walter Earle, this is the way
To settle the Commission of Array.
If Hee bee suffer'd to expire his stuffes,
Wee shall have treason shortly lurke in muffes;
I tell you, Freinds, if Hee be suffer'd so
To vent his Wares, if the State let Him goe,
Thus orderly to traine his Silver Band,
Our brazen-fac'd Militia cannot stand.
These are the Workes of Peace & Darknesse! War
Is our Delight: This sleizie Peice will marre
Our sturdy Soules: A solid massie Crown
Is not brought forth on Beds of melting Down.
Dixit SR Midwife. But the quiet Flies
Smile at his harmlesse testy injuries.
They sweat in hope of Better Times, whilst I
Wrapt in conceit of this deepe Mysterie,
Dare wish, if neither Gold, nor Silver must
Denominate our wellfare, though but Dust,
If neither Honey come in floods, nor Milke,
We may bee glutted with the Age of Silke.
 

Alkermes. A famous Confection, made of Silke decocted & infused into the juice of Kermes, a Soveraigne remedy against fainting & swowning; very restorative & comfortable to sickly weake people, and a good Cordiall for all kind of Sadnesse, Greife, & Distraction.

Very delicate indeed. I. in regard of the Time, the best part of the yeare, the Spring, and the best part of the Spring, in April, at the Moon's Increase, and for the time of the day, they must be fed every morning & evening, and upon the fourth change at noon also. II. in respect of the Meanes, the Leaves of the Mulberie, a Tree very rare in most Countryes, and those Leaves, wch are most tender, and of those Trees, wch are planted upon the topps of Hills, standing open to the Sun. &c. III. of the Matter: the Seed wch is but a yeare old to bee made choice of for Breeders. IV. the Manner of Production. this Seed must bee made ripe & mellow with a bath of Wine. V. the Place. 1. by the Fire's Side. 2. betwixt two Pillowes stuff'd with soft warm Feathers, or betwixt a Woeman's Breast...3. upon Boards or Papers, rubb'd over with Wormwood, or some such wholesome Hearb, wch discovers the profit as well as the pleasure and curiositie of this Beast. There are many other circumstances very observable in the generation & education of our Silkworme; but these are sufficient to prove the admirable finenesse of his constitution.

S. Wal. Earl. A Man (shall I say? or a Man-midwife, as One sayd of Him) who was wont to deliver the Com̄onwealth of her swelling tympanies, & make strange discoveries of Horrible Plots. a Man, that help'd to ruine illustrationin deciphering & tormenting those innocent Characters of his Name; and if He be yet in Beeing, will hardly suffer these tame harmlesse Vermine to doe their Businesse in Peace.

ON THE GRAY-FRIARS Of Ashford

You that love Monsters, come along with mee;
Ashford, like Africk, yeelds varietie.
The Elders are in view! Behold & see,
A very Vision of Iniquitie!
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A Black, & White Witch blended; a pure Saint
Mixt with a Sable Feind in doubling Paint.
Here is Albumazar, the Learned Clown,
Larded with a Set-ruff & a rug-gown:
After a hearty draught of right Sage-Ale,
He sayes, he seldome knew his judgment faile.
And there's the Justice in a Velvet-jerkin,
Wash'd with the heav'nly dewes of brave Pomperkin;
And under it a Doublet steept in Braggot,
Of Buffe, as tough (for ryme's sake) as a Faggot:
Hee, hee it is, who, when all's done & sayd,
Like Ipse dixit, strikes the Naile o' th' Head.
There sits a Venerable Muftie, drest
With Lungs for Three Parts, & a double Chest
To beare the Burden, a wide Weasand to 't,
A Crosse-bow-mouth, and a rich Nose to boot,
Which indeed makes the Musick, whines in chimes
Like Friar Bacon's Brasse upon all Times:
Though his Braines are not of this Amplitude,
In sooth, his Malice is a Multitude;
A Legion of Mischeifes, that can't rest,
Till it have quite destroy'd both Man & Beast:
And yet this Brotherhood would seem to bee
The Bulwarkes of some Fine Felicitie.
Like meager Ghosts they trembling sit & stand,
As Inborow and Outborow to th' Land.
These Vestry-Varlets with their hanging Eares,
The Emblem of our Jealousies & Feares,
For their Jerusalem yet act their part
Like stout, proud Heires of great King Robert's Heart.
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If Captaine Squirt but moderate, the Throng
Listens, and gapes for Sweet-meats from his Tounge.
Like a State-glister it cures backward still
With Quantities of Zeale, enough to fill
A Seeker's Belly, bravely dish'd & stew'd,
To tast, as every Palate is indued.
His Thoughts are stuff'd with a destructive Curse,
Just like the Treason of the Timber-Horse:
And wee shall have, although but arsé-versie,
A Layre of Justice, and a Layre of Mercy.
What is thy Price & Pow'r, Religion! when
Things, that but only weare the shapes of Men,
Yea, scarce so much, Hobgoblin-Vanities,
Must governe Thee; and with their fulsome Lies
Corrupt the sweetnesse of that Truth, wch brings
Such Health, as crownes the Diadems of Kings?
Sweet little Town! How are thy Streets defil'd
With these wild Beasts, e'en blasted & revil'd
With Execrations, the blasphemie
Of their vile lookes & presence! Pietie
Is but an idle Name, since these Wormes first
Usurp'd the reines, and with their harsh votes curst
The glory of our Church: Devotion
Is but a scurvy loathsome Potion!
Rare Physick! Doctour Smectymnuus railes
And cries, The Directory never failes.
One by the vertue of strong roapie Ale
Inspir'd, can make a Sermon of a Tale;
Which taken to the purpose, hee'll defie
His Adversaries with Alacritie;
And from those Fumes obtaine the mysterie
Of a religious, pious Alcumy;
Retrive the Age, and turne it back againe
Into the Splendour of a Golden Raigne;
76

Our Iron-Workes shall down, down, By this Liquour,
That so our Faith in Gold may grow the quicker.
Bless'd with the quiet Gift of Yea & Nay
This Post can purely prophecie & pray;
Although Cassandra-like, 'tis his ill hap
Not to have Credit, till the After-clap;
Till grave SR John Himselfe be made the Game
Of all our misery, of all our shame.
Neighbour to both these, betwixt Drunke & Sober
Stands One, that lookes like Autum in October;
And yet forsooth, if you but name the King,
His Loialltie will glister like the Spring:
I like the Spring! it sprouts, & springs, & growes,
And growes; but when it will bee ripe, God knowes.
This by the motion of his waving Crest,
And the Hand layd devoutly on the Breast,
Such vigour gives, such valour to the rest,
To live & dye with Him, They hold it best.
Another swells like a young preaching Cub
With a devout Oration in a Tub;
Nay, since that Vessell was transform'd, the Worst
Are Orthodox Divines, bred up and nurst
In Revelations! The valiant Sword
Of Scanderbeg is Nothing to the Word;
The razour-metall-Word! that cuts & teares
Their very mouths up to their very Eares!
Th' aspiring Word! wch sometimes gets so high,
That 't is enroll'd in Albo Oculi!
And whosoever tries the Altitude
Of sense or meaning there, does but intrude
Upon such mysteries, as ne're were seen
But by the equall force of such like Eyne.
Yet 't is to bee suppos'd, when those Lights heave,
The Maw is glutted with some Bishop's sleeve:
A Sacrilegious Bit perfumes the throat
With such a Sent, it sets the Eye a-flote.
Their Stomacks are not queasie! these Mad Waggs
Can swallow down the Reliques of the Raggs,
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Dropt from that Linen, wch the Blessed Whore,
The dainty Wench of Babylon once wore.
But stay! I know the reason now of all
These checquer'd tricks, these rude, phantasticall,
Light & darke showes of Goggles, Luggs, & Nose,
Cleare, cloudie Colours, as the Gray Fox goes,
Silver-haird Sanctity, & Dapple Grace,
A Brown-blew Bonnet, a pease-porridge-Face,
Good & Bad spoild together in all parts;
'T is the bright Horrour of their durty Hearts!
Thus their close Guilt, like a slow Poison, workes
Upon their Soules at last in horrid jerks;
And that foule Venome, wch did lurke before
For others ruine, strikes at their own door.
Well, say no more, fond Muse! the groveling State
Of these poor Wretches cannot recreate
Thy angry Spleen! In such deepe Miseries
Pity may find enough to glut her Eyes!
 

Inborow & Outborow. This Title in good earnest did once belong to Patrick Earle of Dunbar. wch (according to Mr. Camden's interpretation) signifies thus much, that he was to allow & observe the ingresse & egresse of those that travailed to & fro between both Realmes. In a metaphoricall jeer (I thinke) it may be well applyed to these officious Time-servers, who sit only to marke passages of State, without any effectuall Power, either to benefit themselves, or the Com̄onwealth.

Our Histories report of K. Robert Brus, that having made a Vow to goe to the Holy Land, he gave order at his death, thinking that a sufficient discharge of this solemne duty, to have his Heart carried to Jerusalem. These punctuall Reformers may seem to be Inheritours of this constant spirit & resolution, who having first by a firm League & Covenant devoted their very soules to Presbytery, and afterwards by a sad expiration of their Power quite lost the way thither, doe yet bequeath the dead Heart of their desperate designes to be transported to this Blessed Habitation of (I know not what) Peace & Goverment.

SATYR. A DEBATE CONCERNING THE ENGAGEMENT

The ranting Frie of our New Amsterdam
Exalted to the Pitch of Mighty Cham,
Contending with our Dam-mee-Cavaliers,
Were in Dispute together by the Eares.
Amongst the rest S. Harry Whimsey comes
With a Retinue of loud talking Drums,
Thus charging in the Front. 'Confound mee then,
Th' Engagement is the very Soule of Men!
The Quintessence of Heav'n! It is decreed,
There's No Salvation Sir (on this side Tweed)
Without it. 'T is th' Elixar of our Creed:
And they who take it, are blest Saints indeed;
Double-refin'd-Sugar-Loaves of Pietie,
Sweet Gracious Babes, Cream of Divinitie,
Gods at the first Remove, and at the next
No lesse than Angells sure. (So sayes my Text.)
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With that a Botcher yawn'd; O Brother! fie!
On my Fidelitie-now-law, You lie!
This is Damnation verily! for why?
The Grace of God is pure Presbyterie!
At this a Gentle Weaver wondring stands
With white engaging Eyes, & lofty Hands,
Riming them into Peace, with, By my Fay,
Stay (I beseech you) stay, By Yea and Nay,
(As I may sing & say) Y' are out o' th' Way.
A doughty Champion of the State then rises,
Subdues these Curates of the lesser Sises,
And with his Morglay-Elbowes quite confutes
The crazy Shreds of their disputing Sutes,
Slighting weake Arguments with valiant Noise,
And the high Impudence of his Brasse-Voice.
After this Hercules, runs limping in
A little Shrimp, that serves but for a Pin
To hold the Woemens Charitie together,
Though by his shrill Throat He might be Bel-weather
To the whole flock: Both He and She delight
To heare the Reasons of this tinckling Sprite.
At last the Beast growes dumb, for ever whist,
Choak'd with the Breathings of a Female Mist:
The zealous Fog hath spoil'd our tinie Page;
And He can only gaspe, Engage, Engage!
But see! a brave Virago of Devotion
Is mounted next, swell'd wth the Spirit's Motion,
Like mad Bes Broughton in a learned Vaine,
Or Madam Shipton with prophetique Straine;
She tells her huge, wide-gaping Auditorie,
That She is greivous sick, and fearfull sorry
To see the Power Rampant of the States
So much declin'd for want of Feminine Pates.
A dire Mistake! Bee it enacted then
Against th' insulting Pride of willfull Men,
Truth & Fidelitie be sworne to None,
But the fine Common-wealth of Gill & Joane.
They all subscribe & yeeld! Since Man is grown
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So out of tune, let Woeman rule alone:
And then to satisfie such deare Temptation,
Wee'll damn our Selves by Oath of Adjuration.

TO MY BROTHER

I like not Friends in rithme: nor will allow
His over-skillfull faith, whose Braines o'reflow
With deepe invention, while the streame of Love
Ebbs into aire; whose loose affections move
In artificiall numbers from his Pen,
That writes of Men Lovers, not Loving Men.
Give mee an earnest Soule, a sincere Heart,
Can sympathise without the helpe of Art.
Let Nature have her right in those, who are
By nature knit: let no crosse-building marr
This goodly frame; that well-tun'd harmonie;
In which who live, know Heaven before they dye:
'T is Love's Astronomy; Then why doe I
Confine my Selfe to this Geometrie,
Such earthly measure, such grosse lines? & when
I write against Art, play the Artist then?
But friendly Brother know this difference
Of common Friendship, led by outward Sence
Is none of Ours: so, wee'll not make a War
In things, wch in themselves doe never jarre:
If Art serve Nature, Nature governe Art,
Then both to serve us may well beare a part.
They not being contrary subordinate
Are to our Wishes; & compose the State
Of sweetly-mixt desires, firm brotherhood,
Of vertue, strength, perfection, & all good.
Then give mee leave at length t' admire in You,
That which 'twixt Us maintaines so strict a Vow.
I am all Wonder. Could my Pen lim forth
Like to Apelles Pencill, thy rare worth,
Thy Forehead on some Frontispiece should stand
Bedeck'd with Lawrell; & by Fame's high hand
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Supported tell to future Times from mee
The Muses show'd their Prodigallitie,
And likewise Nature, when both did impart
Their Gifts, to make thee Nature join'd wth Art.

TO [THE LORD THE MARQUESSE OF HARTFORD?]

My Lord. You have the Will & Pow'r to doe
That which is good & great; the Knowledge too
Of every Circumstance in every Act,
Which makes the meanest Worke a famous Fact.
That you know how, & where, & when t' apply
Your favour, love, respect; this drawes the Eye
Of the Whole World upon your vertues; all
Admire to see goodnes so rise & fall
As is the object that it workes upon:
Whereby the least things seem the greatest, donne
With such a seasonable grace and measure,
Proportion, & just weight: you take a pleasure
To be exactly vertuous; and your Friends
Wonder, delight, & love to see your Ends.
That you know how to fight, & how to cloath
Your armes in Peace; that you are skill'd in both,
In both alike, is the amazement of
Your Humble Creatures (although they that scoffe
And jeer at Vertue will say this is nought
But a fine trick of State, a handsome Fault)
Because 't is rare; & wee have seldome known
An equall fame, an even, just renown
Accrue to severall Acts. But they that know
Your cleer integritie, can sweare & vow,
That this Dexteritie proceeds from sound
And strong abilities, not from a round,
Smooth, nimble, turning, close & crafty Art:
For in bad wayes you have a silly Heart.
Truth, Sir, is plaine & powerfull: it needs
No shifting tricks to make her glorious deeds
81

Shine forth in their brave brightnes: Plainenesse is
A purer gem than those, for wch wee kisse
The painted Face of Vice. Then let mee find
No Wisdome, but what dwells in such a Mind,
Where Greatnes mixt with Goodnes beares the Sway.
That Mind is like Yours, I dare boldly say.

TO THE LADY PEN: SPENCER

I am turn'd Bankrupt now: for such a flood
Of Honour, Vertue, Wisdome, & all Good,
Makes our high flowing Seas of Verse appeare
Dry, fruitlesse Things. Dull Poëtry! forbeare!
When I behold those Eyes, the Orbes of Love
And Mercy, free from anger, sweetly move,
I think what Numbers may outvye that Paire,
And reckon what the secret Vertues are
Of those two Spheares; but find my Selfe undone
To tell but One; One glory but of One.
Figures, Descriptions are in vaine; each part
Is above all Arithmetick & Art.

ON THE HEROINÆ

Here's a brave Looking-glasse, where wee may see
Death swallow'd up by Fame's Eternitie:
This is the conjuring Mirrour, that presents
Our Dying Dames with living Monuments,
Tombs of eternall Glory, which surpasse
The brittle Frames of Iron, Stone, or Brasse.
Here, Ladyes, by example you may dresse
And trim your Soules with Crowns of Blessednes.
Vertue & Honour are a lovely Prize,
Not to be taken up with mortall Eyes.
Your other Glasses represent no more
Than the faire Blossoms of a fading Flow'r:
But in this cleer Reflection are enshrin'd
The everlasting Beautyes of the Mind.
82

ON THE SACRAMENT

Lord, to thy Flesh & Blood when I repaire,
Where dreadfull joyes & pleasing tremblings are,
Then most I relish; most it does mee good,
When my Soule faints, & pines, & dyes for food.
Did my Sinns murder thee? to make that plaine,
Thy peirc'd, dead-living Body bleeds againe.
Flow sad sweet drops! what diff'ring things you doe!
Reveale my Sinns, & seale my pardon too.

TO I[OSEPH] H[ALL] B[ISHOP] OF N[ORWICH] Upon his Picture

This Picture represents the Forme, where dwells
A Mind, which nothing but that Mind excells.
There's Wisdome, Learning, Wit; there's Grace & Love
Rule over all the rest; enough to prove
Against the froward Conscience of this Time,
The Reverend Name of Bishop is no crime.

ON SIR A[NTHONY] W[ELDON]

Translated out of the Latine Copy

Here lies (if Hee, that never liv'd, can dye,
Or at least liv'd i' th' Tents of Destiny,)
The famous Clerke of Matchiavell's brave Art,
Who amongst all his works of the Crosse-part,
Ne're suffer'd vertue to enjoy her rest,
Yet did the Crosse & Bearer both detest:
Head of a Family, that hateth Kings:
Deep Atheist-Engineer of factious Things:
The horrid Monster of old Villany,
Craz'd in th' oblivion of a Deity;
Whose Power was the Talley of God's Wrath,
Signe of an Age stuff'd up with dregs & froth:
A gilded Knight, a rusty Christian;
Neither in purse, nor goodnes Gentleman;
A Butcher rather than Squire Militant,
As wee may guesse by the foule Harlot's Haunt,
83

And the true Proverb just, Birds of a Feather
Will couple still most easily together;
Whose Soule ingenerated, not infus'd,
Was never cleane, but still with spots abus'd,
As if deriv'd from Sinners first accurst;
A Lionesse his Dam, by Tigers nurst,
Some Faune his Sire, but that hee is all Beast;
Well, whosoe're begot him, had been blest,
If not so fruitfull: A feirce Radamanthus,
An earthly Pluto, worse than Hell's to daunt us,
Or a fourth Fury, or a Thing more cruell,
The Saints Scourge, Bodyes & Soules Fire & Fuell:
Abiram, Corah, Dathan, Hee alone,
Ravilliac, Garnet, Traitors Legion:
Julian reviv'd with fresh Apostacie,
I' th' Bishops Sides wounding Christianitie;
To whom compar'd, the Ragged Regiment
Of all false Knaves, moderne & ancient,
Hamden, Brook, Pym, Fole of the untam'd Beast,
And other geater Names, are now the least:
From Whom hee had the Sword, hee snatch'd the Pow'r;
Who rules by God, for him shall rule no more:
Patrubius, & Clusius evermore,
Hee shuts up Christ's, while hee opes Janus Door:
The Clowns God, worship'd, lest hee should infest
The Mart, where Justice to bee sold was prest,
Where the Cram'd Capon was just Moderatour,
Now a Law-maker, but a Law-breaker rather,
Whilst (as He sayd himselfe) hee did obtrude
The darke Decrees of a Night-multitude,
Old Lawes quite abrogated to make way
For the stolne Votes of an imperfect Fray:
A Snake, a Tyrant: in prosperitie
Scarce a true Friend, but in adversitie
A feirce Blood-sucker; a stout Leach of money
Scylla, Charybdis, of our Milke & Honey;
Rack of his Country, wch hee squees'd for wealth,
As if his dearest Friends & neighbours health
84

Could not have wrong enough without his load:
The Guard of Theeves, to none but Villaines good;
Who had the licence of their injurie
From Wickednes by Law made Pietie;
Good mens Goods are Malignant in their Eye;
A Scene of Curses, Shop of Perjurie,
The Angell of the Covenanting Prease,
Friend & Suborner of false witnesses;
Mæcenas of Dissemblers; Innocence
Could not escape; for himselfe would commence
Party, Accuser, Witnes, and Judge too:
A Spoiler of Church-goods, whose hands did grow
Crooked with sacriledge, not age; and what
Pompey forbore, our Antony hath got,
Taking from God, to square his lustfull Bias;
Belshassar, Achan; and false Ananias,
Only hee layd nought down, but carried all;
And on those wealthy Monuments did fall
Of our Fore-fathers Goodnes, which were meant
For Learning's rich increase & nourishment;
So that the Churche's Dugs were both drawn dry,
Learning, Religion too, both ruin'd lie:
A present ruine could not quench his ire,
But to Posteritie hee spreads his fire,
Who struck with scarrs of such devouring Chance
Shall suffer under pious Ignorance;
He's therefore justly wounded with a Word,
Provok'd & sharpned by his angry Sword.
The Preist of Venus, Church, & Sacrifice,
The common Temple of all lecheries;
Whose Genius was the lustfull Fiend, whose sleepe
Did not digest his Surfets, 'cause hee'd keepe
A Watch to Venus, sparing Bacchus rites,
To bee more fat & full for Her delights;
His body still was lively in this Crime;
A foule Priapus, and the Shame of Time;
Fruitfull Dung, rank Flesh, itching Dust; and thus
Hee that to Man-kind was still dangerous,
85

Became the Foe of all Church-discipline:
Nor did his bones, Lust more than Envy, pine;
His Breast did burne & boil with Wrath; his Wit
Was never elegant but in a Fit
Of most infectious Enmity, and then
Was most malicious, when it flatter'd Men:
Both Equall & Superiour, Friend & Foe,
Afflict him with intolerable Woe.
A stinking Pumpe of schisms & heresie;
A sacred Bawd, who made the Church his Stye,
In wch, with strange impietie, the best
Excluded, all Religions had their nest;
And because else this Treason would grow lame,
Like Lucifer's in birth, successe, and aime,
With so great craft hee blur'd all pietie,
As glad his Saviour to recrucifie;
For the Birth-day of Christ, and his Last Day,
Hee did not marke with black, but raz'd away:
Hee forbad Pray'rs to God in the old fashion,
And kept young Infants from Regeneration:
The hungry Soules were from the Table driven,
And not that only, but their Church & Heaven;
The Holy Martyrs Images defac'd,
And Murd'rers Statues in the Temples plac'd,
As if henceforth 't would pietie become
Rather t' inflict than suffer Martyrdome.
Nor did Hee love the Peace o' th' Commonwealth;
For when the Warrs rapt England from her health,
But to name Peace with him was an Offence;
Nor did hee study Peace of Conscience,
In this a most just Factour of the Devill,
Himselfe and others flead with the same Evill;
His own Rack, Judge of his own lewdnes; nought
But Crosse & Wheels suggested to his thought:
Whom the strong Guilt of Sin made impotent,
Weapons & Wings 'gainst his own Spirit lent,
With wch in vaine hee fought & fled himselfe,
Too weake to quell this selfe-tormenting Elfe
86

Victour of others oft, of himselfe never;
Who, for hee could not with a meane endeavour
Act o're his Sins, intruded to the Prease;
As if no harm, without his Wickednes:
In the King's time a feirce Oppressour; now,
Though the Scene alter'd, an Oppressour too;
Chaire-man of Scorners, Principall of Knaves;
First for the King; but when his Brother-slaves
Were spoiling Monarchy, hee favour'd them,
Now curs'd, because they love the Diadem,
As if Presbyterie could fall from Grace:
Proteus, but that his Sinns have still one face;
On every side his Mind is still the Same,
Proud to be nourish'd with his Country's flame.
The Commonwealth was to bee overthrown,
The Church with blood of Christ & Martyrs sown,
Was to be rooted out, which still grew fast,
Till this last Age mad with Reforming-hast
Succinctly cut Christianitie in two,
The King's Death, and the Clergy's Overthrow.
Nor did th' unwearied Man yeeld to this Load,
Both in Church, and in State, without his God;
For this respect to Kings an Enemy,
'Cause the Republique on their charge did lie,
And therefore hating Bishops, because they
Were the true Keepers of the Churche's Key.
Thus calling from all parts his uncleane Guests,
In Kent hee set up New Preists, whose Behests
Might confirm Wicked Men, the Good pervert;
Because to serve God with a sincere Heart,
T'obey the King, t'observe our Country-rites,
Was a cleer marke of Antichristian Sprites,
Vile Poperie, damn'd Superstition.
Thus Don of the Dogs Combination
To greedy Wolves deliuer'd up the Fold,
That Drones might drive the Shepheards from their hold,
And flea the silly Sheepe; And these were Apes
Of Handycraft, of Learning but meer Shapes,
87

Pure Juglers, Pulpit-pedlers, running Tides
Of Voice & Belly, and nought else besides;
Turning the Lamb-skin to a Fox-Wolfe-Hide,
While in their Throats the Widows Houses slide:
They first distract, and then the People kill,
Poor famish'd Soules for meat with poison fill,
Murder of man, of King, & God proclaime,
And the sweet Spouse of God, and Mother, name
That Whore of Babilon, this Judah, then
Urge Scripture 'gainst God, like the Devill's Men,
Without God preach God, of this World, & Hell,
No Scripture known, but what they act as well.
No Scripture, but what this blest Spirit of Light
That Judge of Texts & Chapters pleas'd to write,
Whose Doctrine was Canonicall. Take heed
Deare, harmlesse Soules! under that pleasant Weed
Of Reformation a foule Snake doth breed,
With poison'd darts will make you ever bleed.
Cease now! y' ave done enough for Hell! nor let
The ample Series of our Ills grow yet
From a bad Cause of War, Religion!
But though this Lewdnes thus did burgeon,
Yet here hee lies Ægypt's Great Plagues in Breife,
In Darknes, that deny'd the Light's releife,
Worms-meat, that caus'd a Famine of the Word,
With Furyes slash'd, that us'd a Fury's Sword;
A Draught, which earthly Fire could not make cleane;
In whom what ever Evills you might gleane,
What ever Good desire; a fruitfull Place
Of Vice, a barren Wildernesse of Grace.
If you say W[eldon] you say all. Hee needs
No Monument, so great with his own Deeds;
Posteritie shall know Him by his Fame,
If his Sinns doe not envy them that name;
No Urne can hold such a vast sinfull Heape.
Thus He that would not Heav'n, to Hell did leape;
Of Swancecomb late, but now Avernus Guest:
Who here with dropsy-thirst of blood was prest,
88

Now labours more; whose Genius here was fill'd
With Orphans teares into his Cups distill'd,
Hath not one drop to cool his parch'd jawes; Hee
That would not know the Blisse of Honestie,
Nor touch'd the joyes of a Soule serving Heaven,
To greater want & hunger now is driven:
Eternall flames upon those parts have seis'd,
Which flames of Lust halfe-burnt had spar'd; so eas'd
He hopes to bee in his dire punishment,
Because not all of Him to Hell was sent.
Thus by a new way of Retaliation
Revengefull Nemesis doth shift her station.
But there is hope in time, that both Sides heard,
Ignatius, and the rest of his wild Heard
Depos'd, this Man shall rule alone, a Ghost
Cathedrall, Champion of the Devill's Hoast,
Viceroy of Hell (or what may fit his merit)
A Parliament, or a Committee-spirit.
Yet this the Supreme Orders have decreed,
That Sidley, James, and the rest of that Breed,
Both high & low Apostates, bee as well
Provided by this rigid Judge of Hell,
Of prisons, gallows, gibbets, and wild-fire.
In the meane time, Great Spirits, you may inquire,
Whether your Kingdome shall be safe; take heed,
Lest your Dominions with Sedition bleed,
While such an Atlas of feirce Anarchy
Doth hold the reines, arming the Furious Fry
With a pretence of Subjects Libertie.
In other things you'll find Him true; But see,
That if the froward man grow harsh, you calme
His roughnes with an ointment in the palme:
Thus wee were pow'rfull in our Wishes too,
If but some Cleopatrula did wooe
Our Antony, and intercede to blesse
Our Prayers, like a noble Patronesse.
Read Passenger, and weepe, but lay up nought;
These are for Sand, not for a marble-vault:
89

No wrong is offered here to Antony,
Except that 't is no vulgar Elogie.
But wee had some regard unto the fame
Of Reformation, though but a meer name,
And to our Country too, lest men should say
It were not England, but wild Africa.
Nor could wee suffer Christianitie
To greive with such Exemplar Villanie;
And 't is provided by a strict Decree
This nor in Church, nor Chappell, publish'd bee.

ON THE DOMINICAL NOSE OF O[LIVER] C[ROMWELL]

Now blesse us Heav'n! what Prodigie is this?
A Blazing Star! a Metempsycosis
Of fierie Meteors! a blew, bloody Ghost
Transform'd to bee the Leader of an Host!
A Monument of that Mortalitie
Which ruines Kings, & Kingdoms doth defie;
A lively Picture of Destruction,
Impartiall Death, that spares & pityes none!
The Spirit of a Sanguine Constitution!
Our Great Reformers glorious Ammunition!
The Rubrick of a pious Combination!
The rooting Crest of a Through-Reformation!
If 't were i' th' Foot, as 't is i' th' Face, this Nose
Might goe for One of Mars's Peti-toes.
A brave confounding Nose! where you may looke
And read the goodly Title of Pryn's Booke
(The Levellers levell'd) and yet still wee feare
Hereafter those curst Currs will nose the Beare.
The Brass-hoof'd Bull 's dreadfull at more than horne,
Whose very breath with furious fires was borne,
Their nostrills too, like Tunnells, vapour'd flame,
For skin, arm'd likewise with a metall-frame;
90

The wakefull Dragon, as a Labell, pent
I' th' reare, to make a compleat Battlement;
These Beasts, the Keepers of the Golden Fleece,
Their Blessed Cause, were just of such a Peice.
Without a wresting Comment it may passe
For Sampson's mighty Jaw-bone of an Asse!
Scanderbeg's Sword, Goliah's Weavers-Beam,
Alcides Club, the Fist of Polypheme,
The Giant's burly Hoofe with his Six Toes,
Are but weake Shadows of this valiant Nose.
A very sturdy, stout Sr Morglay Thwack;
Knotty & tough; squar'd wth a barke & back:
A Target-Nose; a Nose Offensive, and
Defensive; Lord Protectour of the Land.
True, trusty, Trojan-Gristles; Flesh & Blood
That stickles stoutly for the Publique Good!
A Hoghen-moghen Nose; a Teutch Commander;
A Roman-Duke; a Sage, Republick-Pander.
The Quarter-staffe of Liberties & Lawes;
The generous Tip-staffe to the Holy Cause;
A Magazine! indeed an Armorie
Of mischeife, ruine, and impietie!
O here 's a Knife & Voider for the nonce,
To sweepe away the Devill's Scraps & Bones!
Come all yee Drums of these Reforming Times!
Is not this Nose the Reason to your Rimes?
Doe not the Bells chime just as that doth smell?
To which Thought, Word, and Act, are paralell:
Are not your Lines so drawn, that each Saint goes,
As if Hee allwayes follow'd his Deare Nose?
Sing what you will, the Ditty still doth close
With this; the Burden ever lies i' th' Nose.
No Nose of Wax! no! no! but better Mould;
A Silver Oare purpled with veines of Gold!
That Gold, that Metall, which if such Shifts hold
Will touch & turne the very Age to Gold!
If wee beleeve the Macedonian,
91

The Mountain Athos weares the shape of Man:
By counter-change of miracle this Creature
Of Man & Manhood beares a Mountaine-Feature.
Surmounted to this Mount, it will amount
By mounting parts, to a Mount Paramount.
A Fire-brand that (as 't is fear'd) will clamber
And mount aloft in state, like John-a-Chamber.
Vesuvius, Ætna, yeeld but little streams
Of Fury, match unto these whirling beams.
A Nose κατ' εξοχην, without a wager,
A Constellation, like ursa maior.
Hardnes of Heart! or Heart of Oake! firm Jelly!
In the wrong place, His Oxcellencie's Belly.
Without all doubt (quoth Rice ) I'll tell you truly.
Bugbeare-Bubulcus with a Bulke unruly.
The lofty Chaire-Nose of a Grand Committee!
The best Artillerie of all the City!
A Demi-culverin! a grey Granado!
A rufling Spanish Count! an Adalantado!
The Pulse of England's Fate! whereby wee know
The Scots most certaine finall Overthrow.
It will out-run a Race of rambling Red-Shanks:
'Tis thought to be the Soule o' th' Horse of Ned Banks.
ΚΟΣΜΟΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ Ran-tan! H. LEA
92

Word & a Blow! a Whip & away!
The French-man's Under'tanding o' t'e Foot
Is now praunc'd up into this active Spout.
The Quarrell is no more for Heart or Braine,
But for the Nose of Oliver Tamberlaine!
There's Valour, & Discretion too! enough
To farce a Brainlesse Tub with scribling Stuffe.
Sweare not feirce Bobadill (for Rime's sake Bombell)
The Foot of Pharoah, but the Nose of Cromwell.
No Idle Wen! no barren Tympanie!
That still portends the Bearer's destinie.
But a rich Bosse! a fruitfull Paragon!
Grave Wisdome's ripe Super-fœtation!
No aërie Puffe-past! march-pane-fripperie!
But a strong Crust of Immortalitie!
The Genius of Nations! a Roundhead
That cannot with One Common-wealth be bounded!
A Snout, that, when it snuffs & puffs, and blowes,
'Tis call'd the Inundation of a Nose
That drowns whole Worlds! a swelling Instrument,
That frets into a spurious Excrement!
A Nose to firke the Whore of Babylon
From her old querks of Superstition.
The Trophee of a warlike Complement!
A Squib of the Perpetuall Parliament.
A nimble, running Nose; so sharpe & quick
'T would fit the Head o' th' Body Politique.
O for a Quill of that Arabian Wing!
To write this High & Everlasting Thing!
Oh! here 's a Theme for crouding Similies
T'encounter with a Sinke of Villanies!
Like Scudder's Independent resty Mare
93

That would by no meanes beare the Cavalier;
Or like the Man himselfe sans Wit or Feare,
After his journey preaching in a Chaire;
Or like Don Cozens wtgh his Cholerick Lookes,
Which catch at All like tearing Tenter-hooks:
Such is this pow'rfull Nose! The Mare is tam'd,
And the Two Men are pretty well reclaim'd:
All things submit at length! but this still spurns,
And kicks, & flings, & frisks, and turns & turns.
Like the crackt Clapper of a crazy Bell,
That chatters an immortall, dismal Knell;
Like a Dutch Peck-tun, that cries Victorie
In crackling flames of martiall Surquedrie;
Like the bent Beake of a fine, ougly Owle,
That tunes the Shreikes of a tormented Soule:
Such is this o'regrown Nose! The Bell may cease,
The Tun burne out, the Owle can hold his peace;
All things are mortall! but this chimes, and goes,
A pure, eternall, standing, stately, Nose!
Like lovely Ambrose, when the Scotch-man's Word
Did threaten to devoure Him wth his Sword ;
94

Like an Huge Hercules in Poëtrie,
Whose roaring Bombards bellow to the Skie;
Like spruce Nasutus or wild Polyposus,
Who ever & anon wth nose doe pose us:
Such is this gracious Nose! The Brown Boy's lost,
The Rimer crackt; Those are but Names at most!
All things doe yeeld in time! but this holds out
A Lusty Champion at every Bout.
Like a bright Torch, that lights to open rapes,
And generall massacres, which no man scapes;
Like a briske Taper, proudly to disguise
Hell with the lustre of a Paradise;
Or like an Ignis fatuus, that doth run
To draw us to a swift Perdition:
Such is this flaming Nose! the Torch is out,
The Taper 's spent, the Fire receives a rout:
All things consume! but this still burns & fumes,
And fumes & burns, and stinks, yet ne're consumes.
Like a vast Promontorie, that doth stand
Threatning destructions both to Sea & Land;
Like generating Smec. and All that can
Bee say'd of Him by the Best Wit of Man;
Like a plumpe Pudding with fat, sweatie Poares,
That, as it enters in the Throat, it goares:
95

Such is this various Nose! The Promontorie
Slips out of sight, and is no more a Storie;
The black & sootie Cacodæmon Smec.
With poor Presbyterie hath broake his Neck:
All things depart & dye, but this alone!
The Pudding hath two Ends, but this hath none!
Like the Ship Libertie with her full Sailes
And fifty Peices, in successfull Gales;
Or like the Swift-Sure with her Faster Hold,
And Rebell-Rangers, confident & bold;
Or like the Speaker with her Rhetorick
Of Ord'nance, Colours, & Disputing Dick .
Such is this flaring Nose! the Libertie
Is split; the Rest now not so fast and free!
All things decay at last! but this remaines
With tackle tight & stiffe, for endlesse gaines.
A Nose too harsh for Rythm! who playes upon 't,
With Xerxes doth but whip the Hellespont;
Or like a senselesse Mad-man lash the Aire,
For by its Influence 't is every where!
'T is here! & there! an actuall, vertuall Nose;
Which, as the Weapon cures, so wounds his Foes.
A Way-bit to the Rest! The Text supposes
The short-hair'd Brethren yet may weare long Noses!
A proud ambitious Nose! that still doth rise
Ten hand-fulls higher than his towring Eyes.
An Iron-Whifler to the Brazen Front!
A Nose, that would have fitted John-a-Gaunt!
When He & Bradshaw meet, you would suppose
The Devill had S. Dunstane by the Nose.
A profound learned Nose! that can by art
Make a just judgment of the Subtle ------.
Most neer of kin to th' Mouth; for when it stretches
Porcupine-like, it can make heav'nly Speeches!
As Cuck-holds gigg their Hornes, which breake away,
96

And sprout fresh Κερατα, κεραα, κερα,
So (like a branching Pedigree) it growes!
A Repetition Nose! a Nose! a Nose!
A bonny Nose! a Nose for Sweet Pig-wiggin!
An eloquent Nose! a Nose for Oratour Higgin!
A ranting Nose! a Nose for Radamanthus!
A Nose that like the Tower-Guns doth dant us!
A terrible Nose! a Nose that will affright us!
A sharpe-set Nose! a Nose with Teeth, to bite us.
A Nose so Glutton-like, it makes All even,
Devouring with a Stomack like a Stephen!
And snoares aloud, like that Geneva-Horse,
Damnation-Belly-full at every Course!
An angry Nose! wch, if it once take snuffe,
Will blow us all to Fitters with a puffe!
A Nose whose super-eminent Surplusage
Is far above Gamaliel Ratsey's Visage.
All wee can either say, or thinke (God knows)
Is but the Superfluitie of Nose.
Well then! to end! because Tautoligie
Cannot expresse his Geneologie;
I'll only wish, that when the World is made
By the large Drops of this All-conquering Blade,
A Common-shewer of nasty Over-throws,
That Hee & His were Nothing but All Nose.
 

They are thus described by Ovid, Epist. 12 ‘Martis erāt tauri,’ &c.

Sur-mounted, or super-mounted, as if you wd say, mounted up, above the rest...I thought fit to give this Hint, because Words thus affected are not to be used but with caution & excuse....

A very upright, or downright Clown (wch yu will) much addicted to such vulgar terms of Asseveration; whose Person is here brought in, casting a Figure to retrive & conjure up Another like himselfe: for this flitting Vapor, this ranging Metaphour, this Addle-egg, a Shittle-brain'd, painted Purliew, a Renegado-Forme, this frantick Whirlegig, this trifling Runnagate, this any thing, this nothing, would be quite lost in a tardy Pursute of serious Ciphers.

κοσμοπολιτης. A Citizen of ye World. Such are the Saints of our twice-&-thrice blessed Reformation. Shifting Vagabonds, that make the Earth their Thorough-faire & their Home too. In-&-out Retainers! Off & on! Goers & Comers! Shufling Inmates, true sacred ungracious Libertines: that like a Sort of carelesse Pilgrims or bold Mendicant Friers, sneake up & down in every corner, and by a strange kind of Adoption, by way of Sanctified Plunder or Sequestration (for so Dominiū fundatur in gratiâ) take possession of each House as their own, freely & fairely (such is their admirable courtesie & behaviour) ingenuously & lovingly divide shares, and quarter upon the Common Stock. Creatures, that have their Habitation every where, though for a need they can cram their whole Lively-hood into a Beggarly Knap-sack: Things, that stick upon the Skirts of a Land as close & fast as a Crab-louse, and yet at a dead lift can skip like a Flea into any Nation. Sweet Vermin! mad Cattell! a Generation of Vipers! I know not how to decipher them!

This Scudder an Assembly-Rook with the other Cozens a fierie-faced quarrelsome Citizen I have some reason to know; with whom it was my fortune to travel into Wilt-shire. Being surnish'd wth a Coach, the Parson's Jade was allotted to a Friend of mine, & a true Roialist: whom because of his unruly tricks wee commonly stiled The Independent Mare. When wee came to our journey's end, the next day being Sun-day, Mr SC. was pleas'd to bestow a Serm. or two upon the House where wee lay: but finding himselfe very weary & tir'd wth travell, after a long Preface concerning the indifferent behaviour of Sitting or Standing in a Preacher, at last wth much reverence & devotion hee declin'd downwards, & glued his Big Buttocks to a Great Chaire, placed at the Upper End of a Table for that purpose; and in that posture deliver'd himselfe to his Auditorie all the time of his two tedious dull Sermons; with such admirable action to boot, as if He & his Beast had bin both of a Haire, most nearly allyed in their Carriage & Disposition.

The Reader is to understand that about that time, when the first Insurrection was in Scot-land, there came One of that Nation to our Universitie of CAMBRIDGE, where amongst others falling into the company of J. AMBR. a man of no comely Visage, or pleasing discourse, he at last fell out with him: upon which occasion One of our Prime Witts did in the Scotch-man's name frame a bold Challenge in Latine, which was im̄ediately sent unto his rough Antagonist: who upon the first View was mightily perplexed, and varied his swarthy Countenance into many terrible aspects, till at length hee was willing to conceive some releife from the last word of that feirce Invitation: illicò adorietur, he will presently adore thee: a strange Interpretation! proceeding from a Person of so little reverence & beauty, such great learning & profound valour. For ye better apprehension of this Honourable Cōplexion I have here inserted a Copy of the Defyance. Ne succenseas Domine, quod vindictam mihi obsonare studeam injuriis tuis lacessitus: meus famelicus gladius prandeat necesse in tuo corpore, nisi quod carnẽ tuā vilioris gustus fastidiat: nigrũ corpus index animi plus quàm Diabolici: at ego nulla reformido spectra: Capessas igitur ensem, simulque designes locũ, quando, et ubi pugnandum: aliàs invenies hostem, qui tibi prœcipiet eligendi vices, & ubicunque invenerit, ilicò adorietur. Qui ita tuus, ut ipsa viscer intrare cupit. Ad Imaginẽ tuā, Nigrā ursam. Thus in English. Sir, you may not take it ill, that I desire to glut my revenge exalted to an appetite by your injuries: my hungry Sword must needs dine upon your body, unlesse happily it may loath & abhor flesh of such a vile unsavourie tast: that black carcase is an evident Signe of a mind worse than the Devill: but however I fear no apparitions: therefore provide your weapon, and withall designe the place, when & where wee must fight: otherwise yu shall find an enemy, that will soon instruct yu in the course of an election; and wthout any delay, in good earnest will embrace you at the first opportunitie of our next meeting. Who is so yours, as that he covets to enter into your very Bowells. At your own Signe, the Black Beare.

An Adventurer in that Ship, One that desiring to be wise takes greatest delight starting Questions & resolving Riddles; by his profession a zealous Cooke, or (if yu please) Fritter-Seller of Great Brittain.

St. M. once a Grave Divine of the illiterate Mixt Assembly, who at a Wedding Feast having eaten a little more than his Share of a Jole of Salmon, and afterwards taken in a full Quart of Sack for disgestion, most devoutly cried out, Blessed be God! how good the Creatures are, being us'd with moderation!

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